


An Army Doctor (& a Consulting Detective) in Paris

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Frottage, Genderswap, Public Sex, Sleep Sex, Tourist fluff, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After wrapping up two cases in Paris, Sherlock and John decide to take some time off and sightsee. All genderswapped. PWP. Public toilet/restroom sex + tourist fluff + bathtub sex + sleep sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John fancies a holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story occurs after [ Impaired Judgment ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124308/chapters/2266160/). Prior to coming to Paris, John suffered an accidental near-drowning in the bath and was in hospital.

Late morning found Sherlock and John at a table on the terrace of the Café de la Paix. John was jotting notes on the back of an envelope, an outline for her blog entry about the Paris cases. Sherlock was fiddling with her mobile.

“There’s a train leaving at 11:13 am. We could be back in London by…” said Sherlock.

“You can,” interrupted John. “I’m staying for a few days.” 

Sherlock sipped her double espresso thoughtfully. John looked at Sherlock, who raised her eyebrows. 

“As you have pointed out on numerous occasions, I am still technically _convalescing_ , and I have decided that I want a holiday. I’ve never been to Paris, and I think I’d fancy a spot of sightseeing. Like Renault said, stroll along the Seine, queue with half the known world to see the Mona Lisa, Eiffel Tower, that lot. I know that you’d never go in for anything as mundane as _tourism_ …but I won’t be gone long.”

Sherlock put her cup down.

“You might need an _interpreter_ …,” Sherlock said. John shrugged noncommittally. 

Sherlock continued, “…or a _guide_ —I have been here quite a few times—or perhaps even….” 

John cocked her head and leaned closer. A faintly curious smile was on her lips.

“… _a lady’s maid_.” 

John’s eyes widened. 

”Sherlock, why—in the name of all that’s holy—would I need a lady’s maid?” She laughed good-naturedly. 

“ _To assist you with your bath_ ,” replied Sherlock, a suggestive smile breaking across her face. 

John’s eyes sparkled with desire, but then clouded. She picked up her pen and drew idly in the corner of the envelope. She frowned.

“Don’t think I can bathe without ending up in hospital?” she said defensively, avoiding Sherlock’s stare. 

“No,” Sherlock assuaged, drawing out the word and dropping her voice to its lowest octave. “But, you aren’t the only one in this partnership that needs to feel useful or helpful.” John looked at her. “You can call it a deposit in the household account of goodwill—goodness knows I draw it down enough.” John pursed her lips. “Or,” Sherlock took a deep breath and dropped her guard completely, “you can call it an opportunity to take care of what I hold most precious.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment. 

John turned back to her envelope and began doodling again. She drank the dregs of her tea and fished out her wallet, counting bills and tucking a few under the saucer. She mumbled something and went into the main part of the café.

Sherlock’s mind was whirling, unraveling a panicked tangle of contingency plans and graceful exits when John’s words penetrated her mind.

“Would you mind meeting me in the ladies’ toilet in four minutes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Paris of my imagination and a few overdue library books. According to one of these books, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle revised his Sherlock Holmes stories at the Café de la Paix.


	2. Café de la Paix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have sex in a public toilet/restroom.

Sherlock was ready like a cocked pistol. Every fiber of her being, flesh and mind, was focused on John, reading, scanning, but most of all, waiting for cues. They were standing face-to-face in a small bathroom stall.

John pushed Sherlock gently until the consulting detective's back was against the wall. She pulled at Sherlock’s coat, on both sides, under the arms; Sherlock bent her knees slightly and then straightened one, bracing herself awkwardly against the wall. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s coat. She slotted her legs around Sherlock’s straight one so that her pelvis rested against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock leaned down, and John leaned up until John’s lips hovered by Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock rested her arms lightly around John’s waist; John had her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Tell me, Sherlock,” whispered John, “ _exactly_ what a lady’s maid does.” 

Sherlock had been known to say that she couldn’t make bricks without clay, but with this _particular_ clay, she made bricks for an entire new wing of her Mind Palace.

“A lady’s maid, John,” Sherlock purred, “attends to her lady’s wishes.”

“For example?” John asked in a broken voice.

“For example,” continued Sherlock with a smile, “she draws her lady a very hot bath…”

“With oil?” John whispered.

“With oil,” agreed Sherlock. “She helps her lady out of her clothes and into the bath.” 

John hummed.

“She guides her lady to lie back and close her eyes and relax.”

John closed her eyes and sagged a little into Sherlock’s body.

“She sits behind her lady and rubs her lady’s neck, her shoulders, and her hands. Then she takes a sponge and soap and washes her lady’s skin. She washes and rinses every inch of her lady’s skin, John. Every. Inch.”

John gave a very soft, very short moan. 

“And when all the tension has left her lady, the lady’s maid unplugs the drain and helps her lady out of the bath. Then, she dries her with a soft towel.”

“Everywhere?” asked John with a murmur.

“Everywhere, John. Even if it means that the lady’s maid _gets on her knees_.” 

“Holy Mary,” groaned John and rested her forehead against Sherlock’s clavicle. Sherlock’s pupils dilated fully, and the muscles in her arms and hands strained to maintain their casual grasp around John. But she didn’t dare break the spell with any movement of her own. 

“Then she dresses the lady in nightclothes,” said Sherlock.

John opened her eyes and stared down the front of Sherlock's coat. She asked in a thick, but puzzled, voice, “What kind of nightclothes?”

In the new wing of Sherlock’s Mind Palace, a large wardrobe opened, and garments started dancing like some sort of prêt porter Fantasia.

“A nightgown,” said Sherlock, looking down, trying to read John’s face, “a short nightgown of lilac colour, with two thin straps that cross in the back, made of the softest, finest, most impractical silk on the planet.”

John giggled. “Go on,” she said, “Knickers?”

Sherlock paused. John twisted her head slightly. 

“No,” growled Sherlock. 

John moaned softly and dropped back, rocking her forehead back and forth against Sherlock.

“And then the lady’s maid carries her lady to bed,” said Sherlock.

John giggled again. “Sherlock, I _seriously_ doubt that…”

“Hush. The lady’s maid carries her lady to bed and tucks her in.” 

“And the lady sleeps peacefully, with no nightmares?” John offered.

“No nightmares, because the lady’s maid is very close by, in case her lady wakes in the night,” answered Sherlock.

“ _Oh_ ,” sighed John. She undid the top two buttons on Sherlock’s blouse, and Sherlock pulled the fabric away from the left side of her neck. The two dropped their voices even further to the faintest whispers.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What if the lady wakes? 

“The maid will _service_ her lady. Thoroughly." 

John was panting. She swallowed loudly. 

"What if she wakes again?"

"Her lady will service her over and over again!” roared Sherlock. 

John cried out and thrust her pelvis sharply onto Sherlock’s thigh. She buried her teeth in Sherlock’s neck. Unable to restrain herself, Sherlock clutched John’s arse with a vise grip. In an instant, she lifted John and flipped their positions, pinning John against the bathroom stall wall. She rutted her own pelvis against her lover’s with feral abandon. John tilted her head, and Sherlock bit John’s neck as she came.

 

 

John washed her hands at the sink and met Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror. 

“You’re hired,” she quipped, “When does the tour start?” Sherlock’s eyes danced with a mercurial light. 

“Do I need one of those flags for you to follow along behind?” Sherlock teased as she opened the door. 

“Never needed one before,” retorted John dryly. She gave Sherlock’s bottom a playful swat as they exited the loo. Sherlock whipped around, staring at her companion in frank surprise.

“Paris,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“So noted,” hummed Sherlock with a grin.


	3. Sightseeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John sightsee and shop. Tourist fluff.

Sherlock was a good tour guide. She led John through a colorful market of pet birds. They walked along avenues made famous by poets and painters and philosophers, and Sherlock held forth on the contributions of Alphonse Bertillon to the field of forensics. Sometimes they sat, like in the Jardin du Luxembourg, where Sherlock told her that serial killer Henri Désiré Landru—who from 1914 to 1918 murdered ten women by cooking them in his stove—met his intended victims. They went to the Musée de Cluny, and Sherlock compared the effectiveness of medieval torture devices. After lunch, they went to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. By the time Sherlock had finished guiding her through the crypt, John was tired.

“This has been quite lovely, Sherlock,” said John, “but I’m ready to go back to the hotel and take a nap.” 

“One more stop,” said Sherlock. They took a taxi and stepped out in front of an apothecary-looking shop.

“Ah,” said John realizing. “Bath oil.”

“We need to find you a new scent; it’ll be an _experiment_ ,” said Sherlock gleefully.

“It would be easier to just get another bottle of eucalyptus oil,” replied John.

“No,” said Sherlock firmly. 

“Why not? I _like_ it,” said John irritatedly. 

Sherlock whipped around, millimeters from John’s face, and hissed, “And _I_ will forever associate the smell of eucalyptus with the abject horror of discovering the dead body of my beloved in the bath. I shan’t be haunted by that every time you decide to have a soak. Let’s. Find. Something. Else.”

John shrunk back and followed Sherlock meekly into the shop.

Sherlock greeted the shop owner and had a quick conversation with her. Then, Sherlock led John to a small corner in the back of the store. The owner produced a tall stool. 

“Sit, John,” said Sherlock. John sat on the stool and Sherlock came around behind her. Sherlock produced a dark cloth and tied it around John’s eyes.

“Sherlock…is this _really_ necessary?” asked John.

“It will enhance the perception of your other senses, particularly your olfactory sense. No whining or I’ll plug your ears, too.”

“Alright,” huffed John. Then, with a grin, she said, “Plug my ears, too.” She did not see Sherlock’s eyes widen; the last thing she heard before the world went muffled was a breathy “There’s always _something_.”

Sherlock put different scented oils on tiny slips of paper and held them under John’s nose. John nodded and shook her head accordingly. After a couple of rounds, John finally said, “That’s the one” to the mint scented paper. She was about to pull off the blindfold when Sherlock caught her hand. Sherlock slid one more paper beneath her nose. 

“ _Oh_ ,” said John softly and blushed. It was a musk scent with heavier, darker tones. It was something that Sherlock herself would prefer if she were ever to do something as ridiculous as bathe with scented oil. 

“That’s not me,” said John in a low voice. Sherlock removed John’s ear plugs. 

“No,” agreed Sherlock. 

“That’s _you_ ,” said John with a whisper. John removed the blindfold and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, drawing her into a slow, deep kiss. 

The shop owner cleared her throat.

 

When Sherlock and John exited the shop, John said hesitatingly, “There was one more thing…that you mentioned earlier…” 

“Hmmm,” hummed Sherlock with feigned nonchalance. She nodded at a lingerie boutique across the street. 

“I will break out in hives if I go in one of those stores for myself, Sherlock. Just…pick something out,” John said quickly. “Whatever is fine. I’ll meet you back at the hotel. I’m positively knackered.”

Sherlock nodded.

John headed down the street. She did not see Sherlock return to the apothecary shop and pick out a variety of sponges and brushes before crossing the street to the lingerie shop. And Sherlock did not know that John made a stop at an antique shop on her way back to the hotel.

 

 

When Sherlock returned to the hotel room, John was asleep.

“John, wake up. Let’s go.”

“Hmm? Okay.”

They took a taxi to the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur. Sherlock led John to a spiral staircase and up, up, up. 

“I’m told a romantic holiday is not complete without a sunset,” said Sherlock. 

“ _Oh, Sherlock_ ,” gasped John. 

The view of the city was magnificent. 

Sherlock wrapped her arms around John, and they watched the sun drop and nighttime in the City of Light come alive. 

 

 

 

Back at the hotel, neither woman wanted to venture out for dinner so they ordered room service. When Sherlock had finished her glass of wine and John had finished her crème brulee, John got up and made a call to the front desk.

“I have something for you,” she said, “I dare not leave it around the room or you’d snoop it out in a heartbeat.” 

Sherlock thought that for someone so ordinary, John was quite surprising. She’d been surprised on no less than three occasions today. Really, extraordinary. 

There was a discrete knock at the door. John answered it and returned with a large white box with a dark blue ribbon bow on it.

“I’m told it’s appropriate to tip your tour guide,” she joked. 

Sherlock opened the box and stared.

“It’s a thumbscrew,” Sherlock said. She pulled it out and, much to her later chagrin, stated the obvious, “You got me a 17th century instrument of torture!” 

John looked nervously, “D’you like it? You’re not allowed to use it on me, of course, but I thought it might be nice to put by the skull…” 

“I love it,” she leaned toward John, and they kissed chastely. “You are extraordinary, John Watson. Quite extraordinary.”

“Stop stealing my lines,” teased John. 

The two women drank each other in until their expressions turned hungry, and a delicious tension crackled in the air. John leaned into Sherlock and whispered.

“ _I think I’d like a bath_.”


	4. Clawfoot tub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of the bathtub porn.

Sherlock changed into a grey cotton camisole and shorts, tied her hair back, and went to work. She started the bath. She collected the items purchased from the botanical shop and put them in a basket. She set the basket and a low stool at the far end of the clawfoot tub. She ran the shower for a little while to create more steam. The mirrors fogged and the walls sweat with condensation. She closed the blinds to the small window almost completely, leaving just enough light to maneuver.

She went back to the bedroom and took John’s hands in hers, leading her to the closed door. They looked at each other; then John held out her arms and giggled nervously.

“This is weird, Sherlock,” John said as Sherlock eased her shirt over her head.

“Won’t be for long,” replied Sherlock as she opened John’s trousers and pushed them down to her bare feet. John stepped out of them. 

Sherlock opened the door and a wave of hot, moist air hit them. She led John by the hand inside.

“Wow. It’s downright tropical in here,” said John. John started to pull off her athletic bra, and Sherlock stopped her. 

“No. Let me,” admonished Sherlock and removed the bra and pulled down John’s underpants. Sherlock took John’s hair and twisted it up and fastened it with a clip.

“In you go,” said Sherlock. John sank into the water slowly. The steam was still rising from the water, and John’s skin turned rosy. John looked uncomfortable at first, but after a minute, she leaned back and her shoulders dropped. Sherlock situated herself on the stool, behind John’s head. 

“This is lovely,” said John.

“We’re just getting started,” said Sherlock. Sherlock massaged John’s neck, shoulders, and upper arms. John groaned as each coil of stress and worry dissipated under Sherlock’s strong hands. Sherlock worked her way down to John’s wrists and fingers, moving around to each side of the tub for a better angle. 

“Lean up a little,” said Sherlock when she had finished. She took out a large brush and some soap and started to scrub John’s back. 

“Oh,” said John, “Just like purgatory.” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock halted, a spider web of possible interpretations erupted in her head. 

“The nuns used to teach us that in purgatory we’d be washed clean of our sins. As a kid, I thought that that was what those brushes were for.”

_Clank!_

Sherlock threw the brush against the wall behind her. _They wouldn’t get much further if the nuns came too much into the picture._ She picked up a mitt-like sponge from the basket and put her hand in it.

“Any ecclesiastical associations with sponges?” she asked. 

“No,” laughed John. 

Sherlock put the sponge in the water and drew it up John’s arm from wrist to shoulder. 

“That,” John breathed, “is _very_ nice.” John closed her eyes and leaned further back against the tub.

_Better_. 

Sherlock moved the sponge down the valley between John’s breasts and around the side. 

“Oh, _oh_ , Sherlock,” cried John softly as Sherlock covered John’s breast with the sponge, cupping it. 

_Even better_. 

Sherlock leaned closer to John and reached, dragging the sponge down John’s belly and between her legs. John put her hand over Sherlock’s and arched into it slightly. 

“So _fucking_ nice,” moaned John, “You’re a proper genius.” 

Sherlock hummed and felt her own body respond to John’s arousal. The steam and the heat of the bath and the darkness blended to create an opium den atmosphere, where the two women fed off each other’s desire. But once an addict, always an addict, and Sherlock craved more. She wanted John out of her mind with lust, and she wanted to follow her beloved into madness. She pulled the sponge away and took her hand out of the water. 

“ _No!_ ” pleaded John. Her eyes flew open. Sherlock did not analyze the stab of powerful want that John’s cry sent through her body. She took a bottle of oil—the brown one, not the green one—from the basket. 

She moved to the tap end of the tub and put a few drops in the water. And soon their den was filled with a dark, dangerous musk, sweet and heady. Sherlock knew the instant that the scent hit John’s mind because she began to thrash in the water, sitting up and reaching for Sherlock with wet hands. John cupped Sherlock’s head in her hands and kissed her open-mouthed, sloppily, with roaming tongue. Sherlock answered her with equal ardor and imprecision. 

Sherlock went back to her stool and sponge and began to trail the sponge over John’s entire body. When she came up John’s bad shoulder, John leaned into her hand and said,

“Tell me a story, a case, anything. I need your voice, Sherlock.”

“How about the one about the speckled band?” asked Sherlock as she ran her tongue along the juncture of John’s shoulder and neck and then bit softly. 

“ _Perfect_ ,” whispered John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone that I've ever known in real life with one says that clawfoot tubs are very impractical for day to day living, but this, ladies and gentlemen, is erotic fantasy--so you had better believe there's a clawfoot tub.


	5. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More bathtub porn, with a re-telling of the ACD tale "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." The chapter title comes from that story.

All the while circling John’s body with the sponge, Sherlock narrated in a low voice:

“In the early days, I had a client, a woman by the name of Helen Stoner. She lived with her stepfather, Dr. Grimsby Roylott, in his ancestral home, a heavily mortgaged two-hundred year old house on an estate in western Surrey. Dr. Roylott was a medical doctor, but a cruel man. He had lived in India and done some prison time there for violence. Ms. Stoner’s mother had died. Her will left a not un-modest sum of money to her stepfather for the care and upbringing of her and her twin sister, which would be divided among them at the point that either of them married.”

John hummed contentedly. Sherlock applied more soap to the sponge and proceeded to wash John.

“Ms. Stoner was frightened. She was engaged to be married, and she feared that she would meet the same tragic end as her sister who died some two weeks before her own wedding was to take place. Ms. Stoner told me the circumstances of her sister’s death. A few nights prior to the wedding, a wild scream woke Ms. Stoner, and she ran to her sister’s bedroom. Her sister convulsed and cried, “It was the band, the speckled band!” and died, of cardiac arrest brought on by a sudden fright.”

“ _What_?” interjected John with a thick slurred voice.

“I asked about that,” answered Sherlock, “the coroner in those parts was an institution, old and set in his ways, narrow-minded and narrow-sighted, to boot.”

“Humph,” added John and shifted Sherlock could get at her back. 

“Now the two sisters’ bedrooms and that of their stepfather were in a row and opened up onto the same corridor, but there was no linking door between them. There was a small window to the sister’s room but Ms. Stoner reported that it appeared not to have been tampered with. The only clues from the past I had were that Ms. Stoner’s sister reported hearing a high pitched whistle in the nights leading up to her death and that Ms. Stoner heard such a sound the night that her sister died along with a sound that she described as metal clanging. When I asked her interpretation of the “speckled band” phrase, she said that gypsies were passing through the area and sometimes the colorful scarves that they used as head adornments were of a speckled design.” 

“Always the gypsies!” cried John sarcastically. “Oh, _oh_ , right there, there, Sherlock,” John urged as Sherlock rounded her hip with the sponge. Sherlock obliged.

“Ms. Stoner was worried because she herself was about to be married. Her stepfather showed no objection to the union, nor had he objected to her sister’s. Repairs were being done to her bedroom so she had moved into the one formerly occupied by her sister. And, the night previous to her meeting with me, she had heard the odd whistle late at night. She was terrified and asked me to come to Surrey, which I did.” 

“And what did you find?” asked John.

“Here are your clues. One, Ms. Stoner’s bed was nailed to the floor. Two, there was a rope hanging down from the ceiling, ostensibly an old servant’s bell-pull but decorative, because it wasn’t attached to anything. The sisters had never used it. Three, the ventilation shafts connected the bedrooms.”

“Ah ha!” said John. Sherlock went to the other end of the tub and pulled John’s feet out of the water one by one and soaped them. 

“Yes, and a saucer of milk on top of the stepfather’s safe in his bedroom. I hid in Ms. Stoner’s bedroom and waited while she made her preparations for the evening as usual. She went to bed and turned out the light. I waited a long time. Then, I heard a faint “Whoosh!” and I sprang, flipped on the light and beat the rope with a cricket bat as a low whistle sounded. Ms. Stoner awoke at the commotion and minutes later we heard a terrible scream from next door. We rushed next door and saw Dr. Roylott dead, in his chair, with a brown with yellow striped snake curled around his throat. It was the speckled band!” ended Sherlock dramatically.

“Oh, Sherlock!” said John. “That’s… _incredible_.” She planted a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Thank you,” she said as she reached to cup Sherlock’s head. Damp tendrils of dark hair threaten to escape from their confinement. 

The sponge and Sherlock’s hand were solidly between John’s legs. John was rocking her hips, slowly first and then with more speed, seeking more and more friction. John alternated between calling Sherlock’s name and a string of profane entreaties that Sherlock spray-painted on a back wall in her Mind Palace. 

“Only you, only you, Sherlock, only you know how to fuck this sweet cunt properly, it aches for you and you tease it and play with it and fuck it right, Sherlock, Sherlock, it’s there, _there_ , love, don’t stop, fuck me some more, your bitch is in heat for you, right now, Sherlock, _please_.”

She gave one sharp cry, closing her legs firmly, twisting toward Sherlock and seeking her mouth. It was less a kiss than a clashing of open mouths. 

Complete sections of Sherlock’s mind were draped with dark tarpaulins so that she could focus entirely on this wanton creature before her—the creature that she knew that she had very carefully and very purposefully coaxed into being. But, as in all those stories, the creature takes on a life of its own and soon the creator is at its mercy, and so it was in the lust-filled den. The heat and wetness and scent—of oil and now both their arousal—and filthy sounds of John’s pleasure had successfully intoxicated Sherlock. She groaned loudly.

John turned to face her, half in and half out of the water like a mer-creature. Sherlock’s hand and the sponge were awkwardly trapped between the side of the tub and John’s pelvis, which was still grinding against them. Sherlock decided that she would bite her arm off before she would move it.

John braced her arms against the edge of the tub and put her knees wide. Sherlock met John’s circling with quick rubs. 

“I want to come for you again, Sherlock,” whimpered John as she writhed pornographically. 

“ _Come. Now_.” Sherlock did not recognize her own voice. 

John wailed, pushed against Sherlock, and then lost her grip on the edge of the tub. With lightening speed, Sherlock slipped her hand out of the sponge and caught John, who twined her arms tightly around Sherlock’s neck as she tumbled backwards. They stared wide-eyed at each other, panting, struggling for breath.

"You'll have to tell me one day...not tonight, please...what really happened in Surrey," said John in a strained whisper.

Sherlock swallowed.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Snakes don't drink milk. If they did they'd be mammals and not reptiles. And they can't be trained with a whistle. They don't have external ears. They can feel vibrations, but..."

_Four. John had surprised her four times today._


	6. No keener pleasure

Sherlock was on her knees, drying John’s legs with a towel. She patted the blonde curly pubic hair lightly, tenderly. A singular desire struck her, and she voiced it.

“John, I would like to _kiss_ you,” said Sherlock.

“Just once,” said John. There was an unmistakable warning in the tone, but she brushed the top of Sherlock’s head affectionately. 

Sherlock understood. This was not about arousal or stimulation—although bringing John to a third orgasm in one encounter would be a personal best for Sherlock and not without its own egotistical satisfaction—this was about _intimacy_. Trust issues do not evaporate easily or quickly, even in the most symbiotic and nourishing of partnerships. Sherlock had dark places within herself where John could not go; John had boundaries that Sherlock _would not_ cross.

Sherlock pushed John’s pubic hair aside with one hand and with the other, opened her. Then, she bent forward and consciously poured all her sentiment—the often-voiced and the never-voiced—into a gentle press of her lips against John’s clit. 

John gave a muted sob. Sherlock felt a tremor course through John’s body and then a pair of hands on her head, seeking support as knees buckled. Sherlock rose sharply from the floor and bore John’s slumping weight in her arms. John quickly regained her strength and balance. Sherlock muttered an awkward “thank you” as she secured the towel around John’s torso. 

“You’re wetter than I am,” observed John, indicating the grey cotton plastered to Sherlock’s body. Sherlock shrugged. _Transport._ John lifted Sherlock’s camisole off and tossed it in the corner. Sherlock peeled off her shorts and kicked them away. She dried herself efficiently and wrapped the towel around her body. 

“This may be the most erotic experience of my life to-date,” admitted John. “What are we possibly going to do tomorrow?” 

“Well, I, for one, am going to return to that shop,” replied Sherlock as she unplugged the drain, “and liberate them of their entire inventory of that particular line of sponge.”

John snorted loudly. A flash of light blinded Sherlock, and something wet and rough hit the side of her face. The sponge splashed into the draining water.

“Ho, ho, HO!” laughed John with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

Instantly, the opium den of lust was transformed into a playground. Sherlock lobbed the sponge back at John, narrowly missing her. 

_Thwack!_

It hit the wall behind John. 

With girlish squeals and shrieks, they threw sponges, flicked water, and mock-chased each other around the tiny space. Both women soon dissolved into giggles. Towels were lost, and they peppered kisses on noses, cheeks, chins, and shoulders. 

Finally, John exclaimed, “Take me to bed, Sherlock!”

“With pleasure,” replied Sherlock with a quick curtsey. She lifted John in her arms, clumsily pulled open the door, and crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

 

 

Tissue paper rustled, and Sherlock produced the nightgown of their mutual fantasy. She slipped the garment over John’s head and smoothed the lilac-coloured silk along her sides. 

“And you?” asked John. Sherlock pulled out a gown of similar cut and fabric, in midnight blue. She drew it over her head and raised her arms. The silk flowed down her figure like water. 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” sighed John. 

That phrase. No matter how many times—and with how many intonations—John uttered that phrase, it never ceased to send a small thrill through Sherlock. “You are beautiful.” The second part was, in all frankness, redundant. 

Sherlock sat on the bed. She turned John around by the shoulders and guided her toward her lap. As John sat, Sherlock opened her legs and flipped both their nightgowns up so that John’s bare arse fitted against her bare mons. Blue and purple silk bunched between them. They both hummed. 

“No knickers?” cooed John, “Just in case?” Sherlock watched a notion enter John’s mind; no amount of role-play would distract her chivalrous lover for long. 

“Oh, Sherlock! Do you…?” John looked down between them and wiggled her arse.

Sherlock’s arousal was like a large pot of water on the stove. It had been boiling, but she had set it to simmer and proceeded to forget about it. _Let it simmer a little longer._ She shook her head casually. 

“I’m okay for now,” said Sherlock. She pushed up into John’s bottom and breathed into her ear.

“But if you wake up later, and want to _play_ with me, that would be welcome. Even if I’m sleeping—or appear to be sleeping,” she qualified. John turned with a raised eyebrow and a smirk; then, her expression went blank. _John’s thought process was ridiculously transparent._

Sherlock exhaled sharply, “Really, John, how much _consent_ do I need to give?!” 

“Okay, okay,” conceded John as she stifled a yawn. 

“Sleep,” ordered Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled back the duvet and sheet and arranged the pillows. Like a dragon with the most prized jewel of her hoard, she positioned John in the middle of her makeshift lair and lay beside her. As they both descended into sleep, she sensed an invisible tail curling possessively around her treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a line in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." Watson writes: "I had no keener pleasure than following Holmes in his professional investigations and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he unravelled the problems wheich were submitted to him."
> 
> Last chapter was clunky. Hope this one flowed smoother. As always, thank you so very much for reading!


	7. It is not the cold which makes me shiver.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dreams of being a dragon.

Sherlock roused. John was treading water in her sleep and then startled. She gave a quiet grunt, and Sherlock estimated the amount of time it took her to realize where she was, and with whom. _Fifteen seconds._ That meant dream, but not a nightmare because then it was usually thirty—or as much as ninety—seconds. Sherlock felt John slip out of bed and heard soft padding—but then no, wait, a stumble and a curse—to the toilet. Urination, flushing, washing hands, brushing teeth, flossing, looking in the mirror, washing face— _red flag_ —looking in the mirror again, curt groan, padding back, slipping into bed and snuggling back into position. _Warmth. John._

“Dream?”slurred Sherlock, snaking an arm around John’s waist. _Reassure, do not tether._

“Hmm,” answered John thickly. 

“Were Mycroft and I in it?” asked Sherlock.

“Jesus Christ! Did I say something in my sleep?!” cried John, jolting fully awake, rising on one arm. Brow furrowed, she looked at Sherlock, who had rolled flat on her back. “How can you possibly know that? _Ugh!_ Sometimes you’re…” John ran a hand through her hair and inhaled raggedly. 

“I had the [same dream](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1141813/chapters/2329422),” said Sherlock calmly. “S’okay. We’re okay.” _Reassure, reassure._

“Oh,” said John, exhaling, deflated. “I’m sorry, love. I’m a right arse.” John’s lips brushed across her temple. _Warmth. John._

Sherlock pulled the duvet and sheet away, exposing her lower half. Then, she trailed one finger up the center of her thigh, raising the dark blue silk like a theatre curtain. John stopped her and rolled her to her far side. Then, she spooned behind her and swept the bedding back around them. 

“If I ask very, very nicely, Sherlock,” said John, “will you go back to sleep?” John nosed lovingly— _and I know it’s lovingly because she_ loves _me_ —behind Sherlock’s ear. John tucked her finger under the tiny strap of Sherlock’s nightgown and traced underneath it from Sherlock’s shoulder to the center of her back.

A protest formed in her throat, but then died an abrupt death when short, but insistent, nails began to scratch diligently at the center of her back, at that spot that always itched.

 _Oh, oh, oh. Do not purr. Do not purr. You have your pride._

The scratching moved to her shoulder blades and up along the curve of her shoulders, and a rumbling escaped from Sherlock’s lips. 

“That spot, John, that spot,” she demanded weakly. The scratching stopped.

“Then, sleep?” asked John. Sherlock could hear the smile. 

“This is blackmail, pure unadulterated manipulation,” argued Sherlock with absolutely no force to her words. “Oh, okay,” she said, crumpling like a paper swan. 

The scratching resumed, and it was glorious. Sherlock closed her eyes and pushed her mind adrift, at peace in John’s arms.

 

 

Sherlock was a dragon, resting on her hoard. She moved her heavy limbs encased in plated skin, and gold coins clinked beneath them. There was a delicious wet heat emanating from her core, probing her, tasting her. _Mate. John._ John must be tongue-fucking her. _Oh, this would be good._ She opened her legs wider and circled her hips, seeking more pleasure. _Oh, there it was. More._ Sherlock growled. 

She was a firedrake, and this was her hen. She pulled her mate up from beneath her legs and began licking her with feral avarice. _Mine._ John groaned. _Yours._ The exchange of words stoked the fire within her.

Sharp claws carefully turned John on her belly. Sherlock rose on her haunches and unfurled majestic wings, blocking out the moon and stars, cocooning the pair, and shielding their coupling from observation, celestial or otherwise. 

Sherlock mounted her mate. _Mine, mine. Yours, yours._ The call and antiphon echoed throughout the lair. They undulated with synchronized rising and falling. _Mine! Yours!_ John turned back and licked and nuzzled down Sherlock’s body. _Scenting. Scenting was good._ When John’s tongue returned to the core of her, Sherlock thundered with pleasure and, with strong thighs, rode it as it lapped and caressed. The wet heat that pulsed inside her was primal and so was the fierce burst of flame and smoke that erupted as she climaxed.

 

Sherlock laid her head on John’s chest. Soft fingers stroked her brow. Her body relaxed as she listened to the rhythm of John’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shared dream is what happens among Sherlock, John, and Mycroft beneath the blanket in Chapter 7 of [ Masquerade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1141813/chapters/2329422). Chapter title comes from "The Adventure of the Speckled Band."


	8. That, and a toothbrush, are, I think, all that we need.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more tourist fluff and a little author's indulgence to wrap the story up. The chapter title comes from "The Adventure of the Speckled Band."

It was well past noon before Sherlock and John emerged from the hotel. They took a boat along the Seine, strolled the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe. Sherlock made deductions about fellow tourists while they queued for the Eiffel Tower. They looked out at the city from atop the monument. John took a deep breath and smiled. 

“I would’ve liked to see the Mona Lisa, but…let’s go home.” 

“How about some dinner and we take a late evening train?” suggested Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes wants to _eat_? We _are_ on holiday! Fine, but no [ Night Ferry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1172915/chapters/2389043). We sit in the back with the unwashed and keep our hands to ourselves like normal people.”

“There’s nothing normal about either of us,” scoffed Sherlock as they got on the descending lift. 

 

 

John packed for the both of them while Sherlock made a show of idly fiddling with her mobile. After dinner, they got a taxi. The taxi pulled into a dark alley, and Sherlock paid the driver handsomely to wait. 

“What is this, Sherlock?” asked John. 

“C’mon, John,” called Sherlock. John sighed. 

Sherlock pushed the cover of a drain away and climbed down.

“Catacombs, again? What is going on, Sherlock?” whined John, but she followed nonetheless. 

A short walk through darkness later, they were climbing up. Sherlock pushed a heavy metal latch open. When she got out, she turned around and reached out her hand. John took it and climbed up. They were in some kind of narrow crawl space. Another door appeared, and Sherlock pushed it open with her shoulder. 

Sherlock watched her beloved’s face: awe. John Watson awed was a truly beautiful thing. She’d known it from the second day they’d met.

“Sherlock! We can’t be in here! We’ll be thrown in jail for sure!”

Sherlock looked at her watch. “We’ve got three minutes, forty-five seconds,” she said as she curled her arms around John and planted a kiss on the back of her head. 

They stood in silence and looked at the painting behind the bullet-proof glass.

 

 

They settled into their seats. John was by the window and Sherlock by the aisle.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Tell me how you managed to get us into the Louvre without becoming Interpol’s most wanted,” said John.

Sherlock shrugged. “I _could_ have managed it on my own, but probably not in the time frame desired,” she admitted. “So I had some… _assistance_.” Sherlock did not even try to keep the sourness out of her tone.

John barked. “Your sister! Why on earth would she do you a favor?”

“[That dream](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1141813/chapters/2329422) we had,” Sherlock confided, “Mycroft had it, too.” Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it, and apparently neither did John. Sherlock opened a newspaper, and John took out a paperback novel.

 

 

Sherlock was bored. She had finished the newspapers, and John was halfway through chapter two of _Agatha Poppyseed Unravels a Sticky Bun_. 

Sherlock considered their time in Paris as compared to London and she arrived at a hypothesis, but how to test it?

Sherlock had to tread very carefully with experimenting on John. If John suspected that she was the subject of anything covert, she would bristle and then there would be problems, Serious Problems. But, secretly, Sherlock relished a particular type of experiment. She would drop a novel idea into John’s head and watch it roll around like a marble in a wooden maze. John would tilt her mind this way and that way—sometimes delightfully moving her head in such a manner—and ultimately it would drop. John would process it, accept it, and move on. It was a kind of skipping stones, seeing how far one’s pebble hopped and watching the ripples it made. The best stones were ideas that were completely foreign, something John had never considered, but that might resonate somewhere in her psyche.

“Situational disinhibition,” said Sherlock.

“What’s that?” asked John.

“It means behaving differently in a foreign versus a home environment. Doing things that you wouldn’t normally do because you aren’t where you normally are,” answered Sherlock.

“Hmmm. That’s a _thing_ , is it? You’re not just making it up,” said John. _Agatha Poppyseed_ was now closed. _Good._

“You can read [peer-reviewed journal articles](http://spr.sagepub.com/content/12/3/323.abstract) about it,” defended Sherlock. 

“Hey now, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” retorted John. “In what context?”

“Oh, you know, studies on kids getting STIs on gap year and that sort of thing,” said Sherlock casually. _Lay the bait; lay the bait_.

John hummed and looked out the window. Sherlock watched the synapses fire in her lover’s brain. It was better than any pyrotechnics she’d ever seen. _Six minutes._

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think...? Does it seem to you…that we had an awful lot of… _sex_ …this week?” asked John. “Not that I’m complaining at all,” she added quickly. 

“Yes, I guess so,” replied Sherlock. “I haven’t really done any analysis on it or anything.” _Like hell I haven’t._

“I mean, we were on holiday—at least for the last part—in France, among the French. I guess it sort of… _loosens_ things up a bit.” 

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock, turning the newspaper pages to punctuate her words, “John. Three. Continents. Watson. You tell me.” Sherlock folded the newspaper and placed it beside her. 

She smiled at John. 

John looked at her and cocked her head. _One minute, twenty-eight seconds._

_Clunk!_

Sherlock saw the marble drop. 

“Sherlock…,” John hung on the word. 

“Hmmm?”

“…going forward, we might want to consider strategies that enhance your _international_ reputation.”

Sherlock grinned. 

“You read my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Catacombs will feature in the Paris casefic so that's why John says "again". 
> 
> The last bit is a metaphor for myself and the Sherlock fandom. There are so many _things_ (things that people do, to themselves  & to others; things people are; phenomenon about society, the media, power, gender, etc.) that I have come across in the fandom. They are things, frankly, that I did not know existed. I ponder them, and my world--and my understanding and compassion for others--grows because of it. So thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> The Paris series is set between [ Impaired Judgment ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124308/chapters/2266160/) and [ Morning Dress ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896/chapters/2269971/). Plans include a casefic and two PWPs. [ Masquerade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1141813/chapters/2310291/) also takes place during the Paris case.


End file.
